


Shelter

by ygrainette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Established Relationship, First War with Voldemort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marauders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storm-clouds of the First War are gathering, and Sirius and Remus shelter each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in around 1979.  
> Ace!Sirius who is in love with Remus may be my new headcanon, oops...
> 
> This is my first time of writing for this pairing, blame/thanks go to [atheartagentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman) for making me ship it. Also many thanks to her for excellent beta'ing.
> 
> I love & adore feedback.

 

When Remus stumbles back into the flat, all he wants is a Butterbeer, a bite to eat, nice rare steak maybe ( _full moon's coming up_ ) and then an evening spent curled up on the couch with Sirius, listening to records and letting the music wash everything away. It's been a long day – not a terrible one, nothing involving curses or death or violence, not today anyway, but still. Even with things falling apart, with the wizarding world dragging itself closer and closer to outright civil war, thirteen hours spent poring over musty old dark arts books in an utterly futile attempt at research, is still a long day. Still leaves him in need of a little pampering when he gets home.

 

His back aches from curling over the desk, his eyes are gritty and swimming, and reading all the foul perversions generations of wizards have invented, well. That's left a sour taste in his mouth, and set his mind whirring in ways he doesn't quite like. Dwelling on things he doesn't want to dwell on. Things he wishes he never knew in the first place.

 

Albus Dumbledore is a great man, brilliant even, and Remus owes him so much it makes him feel sick to think about it, and there's no one he'd rather stand behind, and he understands why he has to read these things ( _know thine enemy, my boy, know thine enemy)_ , but even so. Sometimes he could almost hate the man. Never makes it easy, does Dumbledore.

 

Still. Sirius will make him feel better – always has. That flashing, insouciant grin, his over-affectionate furball of an alter ego, the half-fierce-half-gentle way he kisses, the way he sometimes looks at Remus when he thinks no one's watching. Even the arrogance of him, because out of the arrogance is born the eternal, unshakeable belief that _everything will be alright_ , because he says so, and how could the world dare to prove Sirius Black wrong?

 

Things have always looked brighter when Sirius lets Remus see through his eyes.

 

He presses his hand to their front door, feels with the spark of magic at the back of his mind for the wards that run through the smooth wood. The enchantments come to life and light up, hot beneath his hand, tingling against his palm as they check his identity. The heat is uncomfortable for a moment, then, satisfied, the charms subside, and there is only a low, pleased hum of warmth. Then he only has to give the password ( _faith_ ) and he's inside, breathing in the familiar smell of cocoa and tea, dragon-leather and parchment, dog and wolf, himself and Sirius all so mixed in together they can't be separated.

 

_I'm home_ , he thinks, and the wolf-within growls in satisfaction. Shrugging out of his cloak, kicking off his boots, he's feeling better already –

 

As he heads into the kitchen, he catches a whiff of Firewhisky, which is a little odd because Sirius usually waits until the weekends – and then he _sees_ his lover and his mouth goes dry.

 

Sirius is sitting at the kitchen table, although _sitting_ might be slightly too strong a word, because he looks like at any moment he might slide out of the chair. He's slumped over, still in his dragon-leather jacket, one hand propping his head up, the other curled around the mostly-empty bottle of Firewhisky. The dark fall of his over-long hair hides his face, but his shoulders are shaking, his breathing ragged, and Remus can tell even from across the room that he's crying. And, God, he hasn't seen Sirius cry since – since the night of that last, awful fight with Regulus, two years ago.

 

Even as he darts over to prise the bottle from Sirius's grasp, his heart is racing, bile rising at the back of his throat, because something awful's happened. And something awful is _always_ happening lately, but anything that forces Sirius to let go of that iron, icy stiff-upper-lip self-control the Black family drilled into him, well, it doesn't bear thinking about.

 

_Oh, fuck, let it not be Peter or James or Lily, please God._

 

"Moony?" Sirius's head tilts back to look at him, grey eyes wet and red-rimmed and glassy with alcohol. His face is even paler than usual, and streaked with grime and ( _no_ ) drying blood. It's on his hands, too, Remus realises with a sick jolt in his stomach, the deep crimson standing in absurd, surreal contrast to the chalk of his skin. "That you, Moony?"

 

Hellfire, he sounds so _young_. Remus sinks to his knees beside the chair, gently tugs Sirius around to face him. Then he reaches up to hold his partner's face between both of his hands, and tells him, "Right here, Padfoot. I'm right here."

 

Sirius lets out a long, juddering sigh at that, and his limbs go loose, his head drooping so they're pressed forehead-to-forehead. One hand drifts up to ghost through Remus's hair, then slides down and grips at his shoulder, clumsy and almost painfully tight. His tears stain Remus's cheeks, and they seem to burn, hot and caustic.

 

There's nothing Remus wants more than to just hold him – pull him tight against his chest and rock him until the tears stop and he comes back to himself. But he can't, not yet. He needs to know. And so he says, quiet but clear, "What happened?" And then, when Sirius moans something inarticulate but negative, firmer, "I need you to tell me what happened. Okay? Sirius?"

 

A pause, and then Sirius pulls back a little, so they can look at each other. His eyes are clearer, he looks more _there_ , more present and less lost in the haze of the alcohol, but it's hardly an improvement because his face is drawn tight, rigid with pain. "I was, I was with Mad-Eye." Slurring more than a little, but coherent. Whatever he says, it'll be the truth, and God, Remus isn't sure if he can take hearing this.

 

"With Mad-Eye, and we got a call, got a call from the –" Sirius makes a gesture with his right hand, as if pulling something from his pocket.

 

The alarms the Aurors carry, to call for help in an emergency, must be. "I understand," Remus says, trying not to let his fear show through. _Who was it? Who is it this time? Frank and Alice? Elisabeth Bones? Not Dorcas Meadowes, surely?_

 

"It was the twins, the Prewett twins," Sirius says, and he lets go of Remus's shoulder, both hands coming up to cover his face, twist into his hair and pull reflexively. "We – there were five of the bastards, _five_ , and we – we were too late. Too late – and there was – all the _blood_ , Remus, I've never seen so much blood, and they got away, and we couldn't _do_ anything."

 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_. "It's not your fault," he says, as calmly as he can when he wants to cry himself. When there's some stupid, naive part of him insisting they can't be dead, not them, not the twins. Not Fabian and Gideon who used to bring back Butterbeer and half of Honeydukes's stock every Hogsmeade weekend for the younger Gryffindors, who'd sing and caper about madly to cheer up anyone looking miserable whether they knew them or not, who took Sirius and James and Lily under their wing when they joined up as Auror cadets, who could duel in tandem like a force of nature –

 

But Sirius is pulling away, crying harder, eyes pressed closed, words spilling out like he has no control over them. "I went with Mad-Eye, to – we went to tell Molly, and, God, she opened the door and – those twins she had last year, you remember, Remus? Fred and George, just toddling, holding onto her, you know – and – Mad-Eye told her, and I thought she was gonna faint, and she, she made this awful _noise –_ " He turns his head to one side, biting down on the heel of his hand.

 

This time, when Remus gets hold of his shoulders, gripping the dragon-leather tight and tugging, trying to bring him in close, Sirius lets him. He slides off the chair, sloppy and boneless with drink and trauma, unresisting as Remus folds him into his arms, pressing his damp face against his chest. Slowly, his arms come up to wrap around Remus's waist, clinging on like a child, too tight, but he can't bring himself to complain.

 

Sirius cries, and Remus smoothes his hair and strokes his back, and rocks him gently, and doesn't say anything. Can't tell him it's okay, because it's not, doesn't tell him there was nothing he could do, because that's the _point_ , that's why he's so fucked up, that's the hell of this whole wretched war – people are getting murdered, abducted, tortured, and there's never anything you can do. They joined the Order, Sirius and Lily and James the Aurors as well, because they wanted to _try_ , but all they seem to manage is mopping up the blood and bringing the bad news and leafing through forbidden books and all the while getting nowhere.

 

"I hate this," Sirius says. He spits the words out, hands forming fists around Remus's shirt. "I bloody _hate_ this."

 

"I know, love," Remus says. "I hate it too." He fits Sirius's head under his chin, strokes his back and up and down his arms. His shirt is damp, now, against his chest.

 

He feels much, much older than nineteen.

 

 

* * *

 

When Sirius calms a little, moving from wracking, furious sobs to something quieter, almost gentle, Remus pulls him to his feet and Sirius lets himself be led, hand-in-hand, into the bathroom. He undresses, numb as a sleepwalker, while Remus fills the tub.

 

The water is hot, just shy of painful, the way he likes it best, and laced with pine-scented soap. Sirius slides in, leaning against the tub, lets his head fall back and his eyes close. The smell reminds him of Hogwarts, of running free on four legs with his friends at his side, of rough-and-tumble and chasing each other through the Forbidden Forest. Of hide-and-seek and the way he and Moony would sometimes curl up together, the wolf allowing him to lick at his head, the thick ruff at his neck. He'd always loved that, when the wolf was peaceful, and for all Prongs galloped from one side of the Forest to the other, quick-eyed Wormtail on his shoulder, Padfoot and Moony were never found until they wanted to be.

 

It was never as perfect as it is in his memory, certainly not when they were all being people. Even in their first year, Voldemort was casting his long shadow, and there had been fights enough ( _and that one he doesn't think about_ ), and nights lying awake lovesick over Remus and in an agony of indecision over it, and the whole bloody mess with his family – it wasn't perfect, then. But, Merlin, those full moon nights, the scent of tree and magic-soaked earth, and the great fierce stag and the quick sweet rat and above all the beloved _wolf_ ...

 

Remus slides into the bathtub behind him, hands lighting gently on his shoulders, legs sliding out to bracket his hips. The smell of him isn't as deep, as overwhelming as it would be if Sirius were a dog, but it's there, and he turns his head to press against Remus's collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, where the scent is strongest, and inhales deep.

 

And yes, of course, this is what he needs: pine soap and Remus's soft musk, to drive the echoes of blood and vomit and acrid guilt from his nostrils. Fuck, the way that alley stank, the ozone the curses ripped from the air as they flew –

 

"Let's get you cleaned up," Remus says, and he feels the words rumble down through his spine, and for a moment he can't think of anything else, just that voice against his skin.

 

Then there are hands, stroking a cloth over his face, and he remembers. The spray of blood. The mud and curse-muck. Lurching around a corner to throw up. And coming home, bringing all that filth into their ( _den_ ) home.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, and then he's crying again, and his throat feels hot and restricted and red-raw, and he _hates_ it, hates crying, but it won't stop. "Moony, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Doesn't know what he's apologising for, crying, getting drunk and making Remus clear up his mess, being too late to save the twins, every time he's been weak and let Remus down, every-bloody-thing.

 

There's a kiss pressed to his temple, and then that voice, gentle and calm and sad, "I know. Just let me – let me clean you up, okay?"

 

And then there's soft slow strokes of the cloth, running over his face, down his throat and over his shoulders, and Remus murmurs, "I'll take care of you, love. Shh, it's okay, I'm here." Just a run of nonsense words, a litany that would normally make Sirius ignite with embarrassment, but tonight he just – can't reach it.

 

He settles back into the cradle of Remus's limbs, lets himself be shifted so Remus can run the cloth over his arms, down his chest and his back and his stomach, tucks his legs up so he can reach those too. Presses into the touch, leaning against him, their bodies slotted together, breathing with one rhythm, sharing body heat.

 

By the time Remus is satisfied he's clean, dropping the cloth on the floor with a wet splat, Sirius has almost stopped crying. Remus wraps his arms around him, one hooked over his shoulder, the other around his waist, face pressed to the nape of his neck, nuzzling at his hair. Their legs are tangled together at the ankles, and the water is still that delicious not-quite-scalding hot, and the room smells of forest and steam and _them_.

 

And this – skin against skin, Remus's long lean naked body pressed warm and silk-soft against his – this, he's always loved. Always _needed_ , deep down in some tender, defenceless part of himself that his parents' insistence on restraint and reserve and self-reliance could never erase.

 

Even if it's not about sex, not for him ( _nothing's about sex for him, and oh the years he'd spent believing he was broken because of that_ ), it's about love. About this person, this one person in the world who can see the truth of him, see him unguarded and exposed, all his posturing stripped away with the dragon-hide jackets and the motorcycle boots and the Auror uniform. This person he trusts with himself, who by some damn miracle trusts him the same way.

 

It's calming, too, being touched like this. Just the physicality of it, it grounds him, helps bring him out of his mind, away from the ceaseless roll of anger and regret and _could have, should have,_ and back into himself. Lets him just _exist_. It's a little like how being a dog breaks all those mental feedback loops he sometimes thinks would drive him mad if he let them, and makes everything simple.

 

Sirius tilts his head back, twisting to kiss Remus's throat. "Sorry for being a mess," he says, low and embarrassed. His voice is raw from liquor and tears.

 

He feels Remus smile against his shoulder. "You don't have to be sorry."

 

And he knows that. It's part of him and Remus and what they are together – sometimes Remus needs to be taken care of, sometimes Sirius does, and that's alright. Except such weakness was always the cardinal sin in the Black family, and it's hard to shake off the lessons of childhood.

 

"Yeah, well." Sirius runs his hand over Remus's arms, and he doesn't think he's imagining the tension there, running tight under the skin. "You alright, Remus?"

 

"Worried about you," Remus admits, quiet, breath tickling at his ear, and something twists in Sirius's stomach. They've all got enough to be worried about as it is, and Remus more than most, what with that new Werewolf  Act going through the Wizengamot, and all, without Sirius getting drunk and being mental on top of everything.

 

He swallows, tries to sound as together as he can. "I'm alright. I mean, I'm bloody shaken up, but I'll be okay. Promise."

 

A tired little back-of-the-throat laugh, and Remus squeezes him. "I'm just a worrier, you know that, silly." Sirius nudges him in the ribs with his elbow, and gets a kiss on the back of the neck for his trouble. "Had a bit of a shitty day, that's all."

 

"Dumbledore's research thing?" Sirius doesn't ask for more detail – Order business is all need-to-know, and he doesn't think Remus would want to talk about it even if he was allowed. Whatever it is that Dumbledore's got him reading up on, it's making him tense, restless at night, and the wolf snappish.

 

"Yeah," Remus says shortly, presses his face into the curve of Sirius's shoulder briefly. Then he lifts his head, gently pushes Sirius so he's sitting up on his own. "Come on, let's get out before we shrivel up into prunes."

 

 

* * *

 

They change into lazy days clothes, comfort clothes – pyjama bottoms and a jumper knitted by Mrs Pettigrew for Remus, worn-soft jeans and a Harley-Davidson t-shirt for Sirius. Remus brews them each up a mug of Earl Grey, and Sirius puts on the old Bob Dylan LP Lily gave him for his eighteenth birthday. They curl up on the sofa, lying down, Sirius pulled tight against Remus, their legs a hopeless tangle, Remus's arms curled around his chest, chin hooked over Sirius's shoulder so their cheeks rub together.

 

It's not quite as close as being naked in the bath, but it's _good_. Sirius can feel the thud of Remus's heartbeat, the brush of his eyelashes, a stray lock of hair tickling at his ear, and the faded old sofa reminds him of Hogwarts, and they have tea and music and all of a sudden he wants to cry again because he's never felt so at home.

 

He brings his hands up to cover Remus's, interlaces their fingers. Strokes his thumb over the jagged scar on the back of Remus's left hand, relic of a change last year he hadn't been there for, called away on training by the Auror Office. They both of them have too many scars – from changes, from families, from duels – and Remus's make his heart hurt, but they are a part of him, and in that sense at least, beautiful.

 

"I love you," he says. Doesn't say it often enough, the words get caught behind some tight defensive wall, tangled up in fear and guilt and he always says things wrong, but it's true. Loves Remus so much it scares him, sometimes.

 

He'd been confused about it, once upon a time. Back when they were kids, and James was first starting to pant after Lily like a man possessed, and Peter went crimson and squeaky whenever a girl so much as looked at him, and Remus was nursing a torrid crush on Frank _and_ Alice, and he just didn't _get_ it. And so he'd thought it must be something else, the way his heart skipped a beat when Remus smiled, the sweet twist of pain when they sat in the dorm window seat with cocoa or Earl Grey, watching the rain or the snow, and it felt like there was no one else in the world.

 

Loving Remus had never been about anything he'd seen in furtively-swapped dirty magazines, or whatever escapades went on in the empty classrooms and secret passages after lights-out. So he'd thought it must not be _that_ kind of love, just a friend-brother-platonic kind.

 

Pile of Hippogriff shit, that. For all he came top-five in all his classes, his fifteen-year-old self had been a stupid arse.

 

Eventually he'd understood, though. He loves Remus, but in nothing like the way he loves Peter ( _tease him, wind him up, hex anyone else who dares_ ) or James ( _partner-in-crime, real brother, be at his wedding and his hundredth birthday party making embarrassing speeches_ ). In a way that is wholly Remus. Peter and James he wants to know for the rest of his life, to laugh with, and get drunk and maudlin with, and fight shoulder-to-shoulder with, _die_ shoulder-to-shoulder with if necessary. But with Remus – he wants to wrap himself up in Remus and never come out, thinks if all of heaven and earth were lost to him, this man in whose arms he lies would be enough.

 

And yeah, Sirius doesn't want with the same heated physical ferocity that Remus does, just isn't built that way, and they both know it. But put against the rest of it, that's nothing. That doesn't matter. What matters is this:

 

Remus is his lover, his pack-mate, his _home_.

 

There's a storm raging outside. Their world is tearing itself in two, and they are on the right side, he knows that down to the very core of who he is, but he also knows their side is the weaker. Every day he sees the reports come in, murders and disappearances, attacks on Muggles that make him sick to be a wizard, and today he saw two men he's admired deeply for nearly a decade die, eviscerated in a back alley. Today he watched Molly Weasley buckle under the loss of her brothers, clutching their toddler namesakes to her and keening, and they're supposed to be the good guys but he couldn't do a fucking thing to help, and he thinks he'll never, ever, forget the way she cried. And there's dread coiled like a basilisk in his gut, because the storm is here and there's no end in sight.

 

But with Remus's breath damp at his shoulder, hands pressed over his heart, their bodies flush and wrapped together so there's no knowing where Sirius ends and Remus begins – in this shelter, he can believe they'll survive it.


End file.
